


A Fox-Faced Girl.

by sturidge



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sturidge/pseuds/sturidge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hunger Games, by the point of view of the last female tribute to die in the 74th Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fox-Faced Girl.

“You look pretty today”, her mother said, as she finished braiding the girl's hair. “More than usual.”

She left out a sneer, rolling her eyes. Yeah, sure she did: standing in front of the body-sized mirror in the living room, all she saw was a thin to the bone, paler than a chalk fifteen-year-old with no appeal whatsoever. Most of the times kids at school didn't give a second look; and when they did, it was usually to mock her freckles or the red hair that she just couldn't keep under control. It didn't matter how pretty her mother tried to dress her, she would always like an underfed shadow.

The girl twirled around a bit, checking out the dress her mother had put so much time and effort into making. Red and white; “it makes me look like a vixen”, she thought – and not in a good way.

Then again, nothing good could come out of that day, anyway.

 _Reaping Day_ , it was what they called it. A day where everyone from the District would gather around the town square, shaking, holding their breathes and praying to whatever deity they still believed in to spare their loved-ones; it was a day when children from twelve to eighteen would submit their names to The Hunger Games, so an escort from the Capitol – with a smile brighter than the sun and little to no pity to the misery of those around them – could pick them out of a bow and feed them to the lions.

Not literally, of course, but when you put twenty-four kids in an arena and establish only one rule, kill or be killed, it's basically the same thing.

The Capitol, source of control and power of the country, created the Games a punishment because once upon a time some seventy-four years ago, the thirteen Districts tried to free themselves from the slavery they were put through and failed miserably. It was, in a way, how they made sure the citizens of Panem stayed on their knees, never bothering to raise their heads.

It was also a great source of entertainment for the Capitol citizens. After all, who didn't enjoy seeing kids trying to kill each other?

As the girl looked out of the window, watching the wind shake the leaves of the nearest trees that surrounded her District, she couldn't help but remember how fearsome and painful it was to submit her name in the last four years. Standing in the square, surrounded by thousands of other girls and boys, each of them contemplating the fear of eminent death. _Who they will call?_ , she wondered, _will this be my time?_

There was always a sense of relief once it was over and she could go back home to her family, even if it meant another unfortunate couple wouldn't. Some would say it was natural selection, but for her it was just cruelty.

Not that it was the moment to think about that. As her mother used to say, she should keep happy thoughts and keep hoping for the best. “Your name was only submitted four times, what are the odds of you being picked?”, she would say.

Speaking of her, the girl could hear her mother in the next room, babbling to her father about school – as if it was just another normal day in the house. An odd woman, Imogen Finch was; always full of life, trying her best to keep a smile on her face. On could wonder how she kept such good façade, working day and night with insufferable children and teenagers. Her own daughter wondered how long until working at that school made her snap.

It sure as he didn't look like it would be that day.

“We better get going”, her father said, cutting her short. Cymbeline had the worry, fatherly look on his face when he came limping out of the room, but he proceeded on opening a “everything will be alright” smile as soon as he saw her standing there in her blood-colored dress. “You’re looking good, pum’kin.”

“Thanks dad,” she muttered, her cheeks turning as red as her hair.

“We better get going”, he said, patting her in the shoulder. “We better get going; we don’t want any Peacekeepers in our doorstep, like last time.”

He side-eyed his wife, who just shrugged – as if saying _it’s not my fault I tried to tame her hair and lost time_.

She was always trying to make the little girl look as good outside as she was in the inside, but most of time it was a lost cause.

They were the first to leave their house, everyone else still trying to put together enough of a breakfast to last the morning. See through the windows as the families tried to scramble whatever they found to fill the bellies of their kids always made her feel bad about themselves because, out of the skid-row they lived, the Finch family was the one best suited, money-wise; they weren’t rich (hell, they were too far below the line of _poor_ , even), but at least they got enough to go by. That was saying a lot compared to most of her classmates.

“Maybe that’s why the hate me so much”, she thought, noticing as two girls – Dakota and Freya, she thought their names were; but she couldn’t say for sure – dragged their families away from hers in the minute their spotted each other.

It wasn’t really good to be different, as it turns out. Especially around District 5.

She had grown used to it by then: being ignored and overlooked, or,  in the worst case scenario, _harassed_ , just because your family could give you a bit more than those around you. They seemed to ignore the fact that her mother worked two shifts at school and her father almost killed himself on the power plant all day long, even with a bad foot, to make sure they had what they had. Who knew, maybe looking down on her was just the way they found to deal with whatever they had to come back home to.

It was sickening to look around and see people barely able to stand on their feet, their stomachs crying with hunger, while in the middle of town stood a well-fed and well-dressed forty-something-year-old man with curly green hair and skin in a distasteful tone of orange; someone who never had to sweat a day in their lives to get comfort, now looking down on them as if saying _look at those poor, unfortunate souls_.

“Welcome, welcome!” intoned the man, looking down at them from his stage, barely able to hide his distaste. She knew who he was, of course: Plinio Starsfire, the same man to pick the name of Doreen – the only person she ever came close to call a friend on that godforsaken place – out of his glass bow, two years before.

He was cursed, some dared to say; no person picked by Plinio since he was assigned to District 5 some five years before ever made it past the Bloodbath. In fact, on the second year, a kid died before he even set a foot on the arena, getting out of his position before the clock went off. It wasn’t pretty.

Standing beside him watching as the kids submit their names to the reaping (most putting two or three times more; trying to get whatever they could out of the tesserae) was the Mayor and some of the past victors, none of them exactly pleased to be there. Mr. Mayor in particular: his daughter, Melissandre, was the female Tribute in the year before.

The girl could see the corner of his lips twitching whenever Plinio praised the Capitol or raised his voice, celebrating the event. It was the worst part: being forced to act as if The Hunger Games were a _festivity_ rather than an _abomination_.

“What kind of sick, twisted people live in the Capitol?” she wondered to herself, at the same time hoping she would never have to find out.

After being tested to make sure she was who she claimed to be – “procedures”, the Peacekeeper said, taking a sample of her blood – she fell in line, squeezed between the other girls her age. No one talked to her; they whispered to themselves, never giving a second glance toward the red-headed girl. Instead she found herself looking for her parents, now part of the crowd surrounding the event; her mother gave a “thumbs up!”, assuring her there was nothing to worry about; the odds were in her favor. Her father just nodded, and she was pretty sure he would puke if he opened his mouth.

Then again, so would she.

The Mayor took the microphone off Plinio, reciting the list of past victors as the glass balls began to shake and rotate, nodding towards them when he mentioned Nathan Windsor or Cressida Dayspring, the two drunken victors-turned-mentors sitting in the background. The man made a slight nod to the audience, but the woman just covered her mouth to hide a burp.

The girl could swear her eyes met the ones of the female victor for a moment; but even if that had happened, that woman was so intoxicated, she had probably seen a Chihuahua instead.

“Let’s start with the ladies, shall we?” Plinio said, once the Mayor was done. His purple satin boots twinkled as he stood there, searching through the young, tired faces for any sign of excitement. If the girl could read minds she would beat three times her name in the tesserae that he was probably thinking _I should be in District 2 instead. There people know how to enjoy the party_.

He shook his name inside of the ball, pulling a paper here and there without never actually _getting_ one; it was what bothered everyone the most about him. He tortured them a bit before giving his verdict. Like a predator playing with his prey.

Except he wasn’t a predator – he was just an asshole.

“Let’s see who it is, then!” He giggled, pulling one with a flamboyant gesture that matched his glittered eyes. The girl took a deep-breath, remembering what her mother used to say: _keep happy thoughts and keep hoping for the best. The odds are in your favor._

Except this time they weren’t.

With a voice that sounded more like a moan, Plinio called out “Cassiopeia Fitch!”


End file.
